Fallout
by Mokrie Dela
Summary: Many years after the Great War, there is still an unopened Vault hidden in the one of the most hostile and inhospitable environments in the country. Within is a thriving community, but for some, it is far from salvation. When an expedition is cleared, some of the residents venture outside and into a cold, dead world. Will it be too much for them to handle or Will they overcome?
1. Prologue

The snow hung in the air like a dense fog. Through the haze a lone figure emerged, materializing like a ghost. He trudged through the deep snow, his movements practiced and fluid. His body was encased in a cocoon of ceramic-based armor, once white, but now faded. A long grey duster sat on top, flapping in the wind that disturbed the fine top layer of snow. The man's head was hidden under a symmetrical helmet, a pair of ribbed pipes arching from the sides of the gas-mask canister round to the back. It was spray-painted white, giving the figure a robotic image. Even his hands were hidden, with gloves that were reinforced with metallic plates.

Two men stood in front of a large wooden gate. A wall of metal and wood stretched outward on either side. They were dressed in simple clothes and basic armor, layered against the cold, with a torn sheet acting as a scarf that wrapped around their necks and faces.

"Goddamn hate gate-duty," the taller of the two guards said.  
"We all gotta do it," the second replied with a shrug.  
"Yeah well, I'd rather be in the bar."  
"You and me both. Not long till shift change, though. Just be glad we aint pulling night duty."  
"I had that last week. Thought my toes were going to fall off."  
"Wear two pairs of socks. I'm sick of your complaining." The shorter man turned away, his eyes staring at the town's wall.

A moment later, his colleague slapped him on the arm.  
"Goddamnit, what now?"  
The taller man said nothing. He nervously nodded toward the lone man as he approached.  
"It can't be," the short man mumbled from behind the face-wrap.  
"Sweet Jesus, it is."  
"What do you think he wants."  
The taller guard shook his head. He reached up with a gloved hand and pulled the scarf down, grimacing against the cold.

"Hold up, there!" he ordered with as much authority as he could manage.  
The lone man stopped only when he was a few feet from the guards.  
"What's your business here?" the tall guard asked.

The man didn't answer. Instead he just stood there. Through the mask, the guards couldn't see if he was staring, but they could feel he was. The two guards shared a brief look, each one wishing for the other to do something.

"No tourists," the shorter guard finally said, allowing his arm to fall away from his body slightly. The lone man's head turned a fraction as he sized the guards up. On the taller guard's back was a four-foot long thermic lance. The shorter guard was armed with an assault rifle. A submachinegun hung on each guard's hip.

The lone man showed no reaction to the guards being armed. He remained motionless. The only sound was the howling of the wind, and that stopped, as though the world was holding its breath.

Again the guards exchanged glances, but this time the visitor did move. He stepped forward, quickly, his left hand flying out from inside his coat with a Samurai Sword in the gloved fist. The blade arced wide to one side. The guards' eyes went wide.

The lone man thrust the blade forward, toward the shorter guard. It piercing through the leather-based armor with a wet pop and plunged into the guard's chest cavity. The taller guard flinched at seeing the death of his partner. He pulled the bulky Thermic Lance from his back and motioned it forward.

The lone man saw the movement and had expected it. With the shorter guard impaled on his sword, he brought a silenced pistol up with his right hand. He fired a single shot, hitting the guard in the forehead. With a soft _puff_, the tall man fell to the snowy ground.

The quiet was ended by the relieved sigh of the wind as the lone man holstered his weapons. He crouched and patted the guards down, taking a handful of bottle caps and ammunition from each and placing them in his own pocket. He took a key from one of the bodies and turned to enter the walled town that hid behind the gates.

He paused and turned back, staring at the bodies, his mechanical breathing the only sound he made. He crouched and picked up the assault rifle. He examined it for a second before slinging it aside. Next, he weighed the Thermic Lance in his hands and examined that too. He spun it round in his hand, first in a circle, then a figure-of-eight before swiping it diagonally down and stabbing it outward. With a pleased nod, he picked up the guard's harness and slipped it over his shoulder. He slung the long lance into its holster, and walked between the bodies toward the gate.

He knew the layout well enough. He closed the gate behind him and walked down the gentle slope. At the foot of the slope a metal railing stood on the cliff edge. Ten feet below, small, boxy buildings sat, cramped together. Balconies bridged the rooftops, and served more buildings built onto the side of a steep hill. He looked around, seeing a few people walking about. He then looked both ways along the walkway on which he stood.

He followed the walkway until it turned, a set of metal stairs leading into the snowy coulee. He descended the steps and paused halfway. He looked around and, with no eyes on him, vaulted over the hand rail.

The snow made for a soft and quiet landing. He stood beside the stairs and a small shack and quickly darted behind the wooden building.

From the other side of the buildings came the relaxed chatter of two different voices as the wind whistled through the town. The man skirted the town, staying close to the cliff, and hidden by the ramshackle buildings that, despite their appearance, were sturdy enough to survive the harsh weather. The snow was working in his favor but, although it covered his footprints, there was still the chance of them being seen. Footprints seen on the walkways would go unnoticed, but he would not. Footprints leading behind the buildings might arouse suspicion, but it kept him out of sight.

His objective stood before him after several more minutes of skulking. He watched the unmarked building, which stood out from the others in the sense that it was of stone masonry.

He checked the walkway for patrols and, seeing none, stepped from the shadow and moved toward the door.

The door creaked open and he stepped inside, his gun drawn. Two men sat, a pack of dirty playing cards sprawled across an old table between them with more in their hands. A cigarette fell from one of the men's mouths, while the other one dropped his playing cards.

The lone man didn't give them time for the surprise to wear off. Without a word, he pointed the men toward the jail cells, which stood at the back of the building. The two men stood, intimidated by the metal man and his mechanical breathing. Without a word of protest, and with much fear, they obeyed.

After stripping the men of their guns, and pointing them at the metal bars, he watched them unlock the cell door. He waved them inside with his gun. The lone man, still nonspeaking, pointed at the only prisoner and crooked his finger. She was petite and had been sitting with a defeated posture. She looked up, her face and hair darkened by dirt. Her clothes were little more than rags, which were far too big for her tiny frame.

The girl stood on shaky legs and exited the cell. The lone man tied the two men's hands together and gagged them. He then locked the cell door and pocketed the key.

He turned to see that the girl had retrieved her possessions and dressed in her own clothes. The man opened the door a crack and looked out.

Once the girl was ready, they exited the building and disappeared into the white mist.

Theme tune: Youtube: /watch?v=ujRhNAlfuZo


	2. Introduction

War. War never changes. For millennia, mankind has fought over things from survival, religion, resources, ideology to simple ego. Technological advancements brought about new weaponry, from the first metal sword to the thermonuclear bomb. Marching armies yielded to automated cruise missiles and, on the twenty-third of October 2077, mankind's obsession with war reached its breaking point.

In two brief hours, the world was changed forever. The force of the bombs crafted new mountain ranges, and tore new valleys into the earth as the world was thrust into an unrelenting age of fallout that ravaged what little survived the harrowing conflict.

Those that survived mostly did so by living in giant underground bunkers, called Vaults. Over a hundred were constructed, and in the decades following the war, they eventually began to open. Generations born in the Vaults emerged, ultimately forming their own civilizations.

Cities grew up around some of the early open Vaults and from them came all manners of legends and horrors that would eventually make their own marks on the world.

A quarter of a century after that fateful day, the earth succumbed to a world-wide winter. Over the following months mankind faltered again, but despite the cold and the ashen snow, mankind persevered and survived. The world thawed, but the shock to the earth over the last twenty six years had permanently changed the world's climate. Places accustomed to dry weather suffered floods from the melting snow, and new rivers and lakes were formed. Other places saw perpetual winters or summers.

But through it all, mankind remained, stubborn and steadfast. And from the shadow of the Great War, communities grew, rising from the ashes of a world long gone.

But war… War never changes. The lessons learned from the nuclear holocaust were soon forgotten or cast aside, as greed, hunger, corruption or egomaniacal pride took hold. Conflict returned to the world, fought between or within communities, over water or trade or even dominance. To the east, battles raged in the ruins of the nation's former capital. And on the other side of the country, another storm was gathering.

Two hundred years after the world was ravaged by nuclear conflict, another war had reached its culmination as the Bear fought the Bull. But this war would persist, and, just a few years later, it would reach its culmination once again. History, it seemed, was determined to keep repeating itself.

Throughout all of this lay Vaults that had unopened. Some had failed, condemning the residents to hell or death, but some had survived the centuries. Beneath the ravaged world, some lived in blessed ignorance of the horrors and wars that raged overhead.

And inside one of those Vaults, one of the few lucky enough to survive two hundred years, a community thrived, supported by hydroponic technologies.

But life in such a Vault, while seemingly perfect, can be less so. For some, life can be difficult, and even in such sanctuary, were some with nothing other than to cause trouble, to hurt others, or cause chaos.

Because human nature itself is just like war.

And war; war never changes.


	3. Same Old, Same Old

Maggie Rose saw her daughter out of the metal door, which closed with the usual hiss of pneumatics. The child looked back at the door, knowing that it did not lock but feeling somehow condemned and alone by it. She turned away and looked down the long hallway, the grey concrete walls stretching as far as she could see. I-beams crossed the ceiling from which rectangular lamps hung, bathing the hallway in white light. The artificial sunlight seemed to make her pale skin glow in contrast to her royal blue jumpsuit; the matted fabric absorbed most of the light.

She stood for a moment, hearing the gentle hum that constantly resonated through the hallways. She walked forward, her tiny feel tapping on the concrete floor. The lamps buzzed as she passed. Metal pneumatic doors crept by, a single vertical yellow stripe down their centers. Etched onto the metal was a dwelling number, and below that a removable plate that bore the name of the residents.

She looked at the passing doors, envisioning happy families within, each one respected and valued. Every day she made the same quiet journey to the classroom. She was in no hurry. She walked with her head down like a defeated criminal being marched down death row. Her copper-colored hair was tied back in a short ponytail and seemed to glow in the artificial sunlight. She likened it to a warning light, informing everyone of her presence, when all she wanted to do was to be unseen. It was bright, vibrant, and she hated it.

Her reluctant walk took her through one of the wide, metal doors. With a hiss of pneumatics, the steel panel lifted, and she entered the classroom sector.

She walked into one of several classrooms, crossing the threshold of the open door. She wasn't late enough to be marked as tardy, but most of the other children were already in their seats, chattering and laughing. She headed straight to her usual desk, which sat at the very front. Some of the laughter and conversation would be at her expense, she knew – her own personal, soul-crushing anthem. She did her best to ignore them, and sat down with a mournful sigh.

Attendance was taken, and the lessons started. Her only tactic to combat her daily trials was to throw herself into the work, her mind soaking up every detail as it was offered, and that gave her some enjoyment, at least. She reveled in the medical and scientific subjects – enough that she could immerse herself in the work, blocking out the cruel words and jokes from the other kids. She liked history too, somehow feeling as though she could relate to people of a world long gone. Perhaps that was pity, she wondered, and how she would welcome even pity into her own life.

She spent much of her spare time reading books and holodisks – computerized storage devices which could store a vast range and array of data, from videos, to sound recordings to simple text. She tried to paper over the cracks of pain with a concrete made up of information, but the cracks remained, even if they were hidden. Perhaps it was a distraction, or perhaps it was a substitute for having no friends. She felt strong relief when she returned home to spend the evening with her mother. The first thing she did at the end of the school-day was to wrap her arms around her mother's waist. Her mother would always rest her hand on her head before leaning over to hug back.

During the day, though, she was ridiculed, and for reasons that escaped her. She was frustrated; how was it she understood biochemistry and the mechanics that ran their home, but she could not work out why she was the target of the children's cruelty?

While the children sat behind her, scribbling cruel notes and sketches and whispering jokes at her expense, she worked hard to fill her mind with every scrap of information she could manage. Information was her only companion. The few children that didn't make fun of her tended to avoid her as though she was a leper, leaving a void that had to be filled with [i]_something[/i]_.

The children eagerly flocked out of the classroom when recess started. Some headed for the synthetic playfield while others spread throughout the corridors. She did not eagerly follow. She didn't want to spend time with such horrible people. Instead she tried to remain in the classroom, reading or writing. Sometimes, however, the teacher would insist that the child played with her friends, condemning her to the social hell. When the classroom was closed to her, she would seek out a quiet corner to sit and read or write, with varying degrees of success. The school sector was not designed to have many out-of-sight recesses, so there was simply nowhere she could hide without venturing into the other areas of the Vault – that would see her swiftly returned to the classroom by security, and the last thing she wanted or needed was to draw attention to herself. At times, she wished she could become invisible.

She knew she was different. Aside from the physical attributes, her mind worked differently. Unlike most children her age, toys didn't interest her, though she did place great value in her weekly night of board games with her mother. Chess was her favorite. It required foresight and planning, where cunning triumphed over blind luck.

"You're a child," the teacher once said patronizingly. "Go and enjoy it."

Instead of playing, she regularly borrowed books and holodisks from the classroom or the science or medical areas. Her father used to obtain them for her, but gradually she became known to the middle-aged engineers, and they eagerly offered them to her as well. She would read the holodisks on the terminal in their pokey living room until her mother insisted she stop, lest she damage her eyesight. She had no friends, so that was her only solace.

It was lunchtime, and it had come quickly. Sometimes it would be after a long and tiring morning – those were the days where the children were worse. Their taunts would be whispered, so the teacher didn't hear, and often they'd be whispered behind her back. In some ways, that made it worse, but at least then she could pretend that she hadn't heard. When they were said to her face, there was no denial, and she knew they other children could see her face drop.

She walked into the canteen like she did every day: on her own, hoping most of the children were in line facing forward or too busy eating to notice her. She reached the counter without incident and hoisted her sectionalized tray up. The stainless-steel flexi-arm of the levitating orb of metal people called 'Mister Handy' reached over her tray. The floating robot deposited a mound of hydroponically-grown vegetables, thinly sliced synthetic meat and fluffy mash in the relevant sections with a speed and accuracy only a robot could do. The portions were carefully measured by Mr. Handy, to provide sufficient nutrition while sustaining the stock of food. The girl made a note to visit the lower levels again, where the food was grown in rooms under specially designed lamps.

The girl walked toward the only empty table, hoping that today wouldn't be too bad; that no children would through their food at her, or try to put her off her food – something that wasn't that hard, with some of the things they said.

There was a shortage of tables, she noticed. One of the metal tables leaned against the back wall with a bent leg and another was absent for reasons unknown to her. She planned to eat her lunch quickly and keep her head down. It usually worked….

The shortage of tables, however, made confrontation inevitable.

The tray slammed down in front of her, but she resisted looking up.  
"Having fun with your imaginary friends?" the voice mocked. "Are they carrot-tops too?"  
"Leave me alone," she said weakly and without lifting her head, knowing it would make no difference. In fact, she'd known it was a mistake as she said it.  
"Why should we? We need to sit and eat." More trays landed on the table.  
"Oh no," another voice sang sarcastically. "There's not enough room."  
"Yeah, you'll have to get out of here. Look, even your imaginary friends have gone away!" The children laughed. Perhaps it was because she was the victim, but the girl saw no humor or even intelligence in their taunts.

A hand reached out and flicked over the plastic cup, spilling her drink all over her lunch. Before she could react, someone shoved her off the edge of the bench. She fell to the floor with a loud [i]_slap[/i]_as her skin came in contact with the tiles. Heads turned and most of the children laughed.

The physical pain wasn't easily ignored but the emotional pain inside was worse. She stood, trying hard to hide it, but she was already sniffling as tears welled in her eyes. She turned from the laughing kids and ran. One of the kids threw part of her lunch at her and missed. They laughed harder.

She managed to hold the first sob off until she was in the hallway, away from prying eyes. Barely able to see through the tears, she ran on, away from the school area, and didn't stop until she found herself somehow in the engineering section, standing in front of one of the pumps.

She stood there for a minute, expecting an engineer to angrily confront her. But none did. The sound of her crying was drowned out by the whirring and humming of the machines. The engineers usually wore ear-protectors to defend against hearing damage long-term exposure to the constant sound might cause. But she welcomed the noise as it covered up her sobs.

She saw her face in a polished panel of metal and wiped her tears away, stifling her sobs. [i]_Why me?[/i]_ she asked silently. [i]_What have I done to them? Why is the color of my hair, or the paleness of my skin a problem?[/i]_

She was utterly miserable. What had she done wrong that made her deserve this? She collapsed onto her backside, her eyes still staring at her reflection and she hated what she saw. She stroked her red hair, again asking why she was different.

[i]Would things be different if I was blonde, or a brunette?[/i]  
She held her hair in between her fingers, and, with a grimace and a frustrated cry, she pulled. Her other hand mirrored her actions as she tried to tear her hair from her head. She pulled harder and harder until it felt like her scalp was going to split open. The physical pain, at first refreshing and cleansing, became agonizing, and she collapsed into a heap as she broke down. She cried again, her howling hushed by the sound of the machines.

Her mother's hair was golden, and it flowed like the locks of Venus. In her eyes, her mother had a regal beauty, one that emanated from deep within her nurturing soul. The child had evidently inherited her mother's vibrant hair color, though her hair was a slightly darker shade. Her mother looked at her with pride in her eyes and often said how beautiful her 'perfect daughter' was. Was that a lie, the child wondered, something to spare her feelings? The child didn't see what her mother saw. Her preadolescent reflection was that of a hideous monster, ridiculed by the populace and self-loathed.

Her mother kept hammering home the point that she was beautiful, but all parents said that, didn't they? She didn't know what it was that made everyone hate her, but that had to make her a horrible person, didn't it? After all, how many friends did she have? Only horrible, ugly people had no friends.

A few minutes passed and her tears retreated. She found it comforting down with the machines, with the whirring and clunking and humming. The technology that had such an important role was the product of clever minds – minds she adored. Surrounded by the machines incapable of emotion, she almost felt like she belonged.

Lessons resumed for the afternoon, and her feelings were suppressed once again as she forced herself to think of the work. The remainder of the day was split between mathematics and then history. They had learned of mankind's last great war and the events that led up to it. With resources running low and tensions running high, something had given and, for two hours, missiles rained down across the entire world. Everything was destroyed. The last of the human race sought shelter in huge underground bunkers – called Vaults. That was her home. In some ways she thought of herself as the Vault, surrounded by hell itself.  
Alone and trapped.

Finally the school day ended and, well after everyone else, she left the classroom. She often requested extra lessons, but the teachers rarely allowed her more than half an hour – they wanted to go home too, they said, and she understood. Even ten minutes was enough; the other children, eager to get home for dinner or just to be away from school, wouldn't hang around for long. The classrooms quickly fell quiet, the hallways empty. This was her favorite part of the day.  
Peace and quiet.

The walk home was almost always lonesome and she welcomed it. Although the loneliness was often crippling, she'd rather be alone than with anyone who hated her. She wished for just one friend, but alas, her wishes were unanswered.


	4. A Friend At Last

The girl shuffled into the classroom as others took their seats, each one connected to a metal desk. At the front, on the grey concrete wall, was an electronic blackboard, the control panel jutting out of the wall beside it, its red keys glowing softly. The teacher's desk sat in the corner beside the control panel, at an angle, facing the class. From the back came the rattling of a projector, the Vault-Tec logo flickering over the blackboard.

The girl walked through the giggling children, trying to ignore the laughter. She was used to it, like the gentle humming that perpetually filled the Vault's hallways. She passed in front of the projector and her shadow arced over the blackboard.

Something caught her eye as she sat and she turned, seeing one of the children talk to another.  
"Sit here. The seat's empty."  
"What about the girl that normally sits there?"  
"Who cares? She's not here, and her name's not on it, is it?" The girl found that strange. No one had designated seats. People sat where they wanted. The trouble-makers tended to sit near the back, perhaps where their antics could go unnoticed, or their whispers unheard. The smarter, more enthusiastic children sat at the front, which is where she sat. But never had her seat been occupied when she arrived. She suspected the children saw it as tainted or something.  
"What are [i]you[/i] looking at?" one of the children said, seeing the girl staring at them.  
"Someone should poke your eyes out so you can't see," the other said.  
"Well, the workshop has a sander…"  
The girl turned away, feeling that familiar lump in her throat.

"Good morning, children," the teacher said from the front with blessed timing. "Quiet down now."  
The girl swallowed past her hurt. She breathed deep and long, trying to keep her tears quelled. It took a couple of minutes as attendance was taken, and she barely managed to reply to her name without her voice breaking, but by the time the final name was read out, she was okay.

She heard activity from the back but didn't turn around. The teacher, however, did take notice.  
"And what time do you call this, young lady?" the teacher demanded.  
"I'm guessing it's not playtime." the latecomer – a girl - replied.  
"Don't get smart with me. Any more of that and you won't [i]have[/i] a play time."  
"Oh no," the latecomer said with feigned concern.  
"Just sit down, Valerie." There was a moment's pause. "Anywhere will do."  
"Someone's in my seat," Valerie protested.  
"Don't see your name on it," the boy from before said.  
"No, but I see your name on my fist," Valerie shot back.  
The teacher stood. "[i]Enough![/i] Just sit down. There's only one seat so take it and be quiet."

There was laughter as Valerie sat. The girl turned her head to see the blonde late-comer sit at the desk next to her. She quickly turned back to her desk before someone said something and the laughing died down.  
"That's what you get for sleeping in," Valerie said.  
The girl didn't reply. Valerie smiled dismissively and turned away.  
"Right," the teacher said. "Seeing as how you all like laughing, I think it's time to talk laughing gas. Who knows the correct scientific name for it?"  
The girl put her arm up and the teacher pointed at her.  
"Nitrous Oxide."  
"Very good. Now –"  
Valerie leaned over. "Wouldn't mind having some of that on hand, don't you?"  
The girl smiled. She almost laughed, but she said nothing for fear of reprisal.  
"You don't talk much do you?"  
She shook her head.  
"Alright." Valerie turned away again.

Morning recess arrived and the teacher sat as the children eagerly marched out through the door. Valerie stood and began to walk off. The girl got up, thinking she was the last one to leave.

"Out of my way, Pumpkin-face."  
The girl felt the boy shove her as she stood. She tumbled to the floor one of her flailing hands knocking a book from the neighboring desk. She whimpered and the boy laughed before running out of the classroom. The teacher looked up from the book he was reading.  
"Stop larking around, will you? Go out and play."  
The girl felt her eyes filling up with tears and knew she wouldn't be able to hold them back. She looked helplessly toward the teacher.  
"Are you okay?"  
The girl looked up to see the blonde hair of Valerie hanging over her.  
The teacher appeared also, having realized a child was hurt. He checked for physical injuries and found none.  
"What happened?" he asked as he helped her sit back on the chair.  
"I fell," the girl replied, her eyes now dry.  
The teacher looked at Valerie, doubt on his face.  
"It's true, mister," Valerie said. "She just slipped."  
The teacher wasn't buying it at first but then he stood and shrugged. "Alright."  
Valerie began to lead the girl out of the classroom.  
"No," the girl said.  
"What?"  
"I don't want to go and play."  
"Okay, we won't."  
"You go. I'll be fine."  
"It's okay, don't worry."  
"Please. Leave me alone."  
"Why?"  
"Because… They'll pick on you, too."  
"Let them, I don't care."  
The girl looked up, perplexed. How could someone not care?  
"Why are you helping me?" the girl said after a moment.  
Valerie shrugged. "It's what normal people do."  
"I'm not normal."  
Valerie laughed. "Nor am I."  
The girl looked up, seeing Valerie smiling. Out of her sadness came a single snicker. Valerie's thin smile turned into a full grin. "Want to go and just sit down?"  
The girl nodded.

"Why are you still here?" the teacher asked.  
Valerie did the talking: "She feels a little shaky, and needs to sit down."  
"Alright, she can sit in here as long as she's quiet." Valerie helped the girl sit down. "You can go now," the teacher said to Valerie.  
"It's okay, I'll stay and make sure she's alright."  
"It's your break," the teacher said with a shrug.  
"Thank you," the girl said softly as Valerie sat next to her.  
"No worries," Valerie replied with a smile.  
"And thank you for not telling him who did it."  
"Wouldn't help things, would it?" The girl shook her head. "You clearly don't need more attention. I'm Valerie, by the way."  
The girl smiled in reply but said nothing.  
Valerie asked, "What's your name?"  
"Amelia."  
"Hello, Amelia."


End file.
